"I am going for a walk, mother," he said, with no suggestion that she accompany him; and her intimate acquaintance with Francis, sixth of the name, made her understand with some accuracy the moods of his son, Francis seventh.
"You are handsomer than ever, Frank!" she exclaimed, as if in answer to the suggestion.
"You spoil me, mother," he returned, with a smile.
"Women have always done that—" she began.
"And you more than any other," Frank broke in, kissing her, with a deference of manner singularly his own.
"There may be truth in that," Mrs. Ravenel admitted, a fine sense of humor marked by the grudging tone in which she spoke. "I remember that
only yesterday I was in a rage because the roses were not further open to welcome you home."
"Nature is unappreciative," he returned; and the gray eyes with the level lids looked into the blue ones with the level lids, and both laughed.
For a space Mrs. Ravenel contemplated him, the ecstasy of motherhood illuminating the glance.
"You are quite the handsomest human being I ever saw, Frank—though I think I said something like that before."